Adrian’s door is shut.
I stand in front of it for a full minute, my heart hammering against my ribs, before I finally raise my hand and knock.
“Come in.”
His voice is a low rumble, rough with pain or lack of sleep. Or both.
I turn the knob and push the door open.
He’s sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of pillows. He’s wearing a dark gray T-shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, and the sheets are pooled around his waist, revealing a slice of toned stomach and the stark white of the bandage on his side.
There are two men and a woman in the room.
I recognize them as part of Adrian’s team. They’re standing in a semi-circle at the foot of the bed, all in dark suits, all radiating a quiet, professional intensity.
They all turn to look at me when I walk in.
Adrian’s gaze is the last one to meet mine. His eyes are cool and unreadable, but I see the flicker of something in them. Surprise? Annoyance?
I can't tell.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a little too thin. “I can come back.”
“No,” Adrian says. “We’re done.”
His people don’t argue. They just nod at him, then at me, and file out of the room, one after the other, their faces like stone. The last one closes the door quietly behind him, leaving us alone.
Silence descends.
It’s heavier this time. Loaded with unspoken things.
I’m still standing by the door, feeling awkward and out of place. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know what to do with my eyes.
I look at the floor.
Then I force myself to look at him.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“I’ve been better.”
His gaze is steady, and it’s making it hard to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For last night.”
I don’t specify what I’m sorry for. I’m sorry for everything. For the kiss. For the pain I caused him. For the mess I made of everything.
A muscle in his jaw works. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do.”
“No,” he says, his voice flat. “You don’t.”
He's dismissing it.
He's putting it in a box and shoving it in a closet, just like I knew he would.
And it hurts.
